


Interrogation

by Thimblerig



Series: Musketeer Shorts [26]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aramis Angst, Aramis Whump, D'Artagnan's Rosemary Wound Balm of Legend, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 13:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: The troop of bandits had gone, it seemed, moved on through some whim of their own, for all d’Artagnan could hear was his own breathing. In the faint light near the entrance he saw the low shapes of tumbled bedding and the litter of a long held camp, a few last glowing coals in the stone hearth-ring.“Clear!” he called out, dropping a few dry sticks on the flickering embers, and heard a scraping stumble further down the ravine and a mild curse, as Athos failed to entirely navigate a path that the average sheep could manage. D’Artagnan muffled a chortle. Then his eyes opened to the darkness and the increasing light of the growing fire and he choked back a curse of his own. “Athos!” he shouted...





	Interrogation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anathema Device (notowned)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/gifts).



> // Written for a prompt by Anathema Device, the text of which I lost track of, but it went something like: “D’Artagnan comforts Aramis while Athos and Porthos aren’t around.” 
> 
> // Takes place sometime in s1.
> 
> // Some additional Content Notes at the bottom, regarding conversational topics.

It was a natural cave in the side of the hill, worn and smoothed almost into comfort by long use of shepherds in their season. Once d’Artagnan had picked through the screening bushes and wild scrub that shielded the mouth of it, in the cleft of a ravine, he slipped inside, into darkness that smelled of hay and sheepshit, and stepped left to get out of the light while his eyes blinked into sight.

The troop of bandits had gone, it seemed, moved on through some whim of their own, for all d’Artagnan could hear was his own breathing. In the faint light near the entrance he saw the low shapes of tumbled bedding and the litter of a long held camp, a few last glowing coals in the stone hearth-ring.

“Clear!” he called out, dropping a few dry sticks on the flickering embers, and heard a scraping stumble further down the ravine and a mild curse, as Athos failed to entirely navigate a path that the average sheep could manage. D’Artagnan muffled a chortle. Then his eyes opened to the darkness and the increasing light of the growing fire and he choked back a curse of his own. _“Athos!”_ he shouted.

In a far corner of the cave a man hung from ropes, feet barely touching the stone below. He was naked. He was filthy: smeared with bruises and painted with lines of blood. He -

Aramis was alive.

D’Artagnan started forward, quickly he thought, but there was a great rush of movement and mass by him and suddenly Athos was there, cutting at the ropes. Aramis let out a sodden cry as one arm came free, jarring the strained shoulder. Athos ignored it, attacking the other rope, and then Aramis fell down into d’Artagnan’s arms - six feet of limp muscle, his head drooping over d’Artagnan’s left shoulder. The man stank.

“Get him on that stool,” Athos snapped, voice husky. D’Artagnan manoeuvred him awkwardly over to a shabby three-legged contraption set near the hearth, and propped the man against his side, wincing as Aramis flinched when he closed his hand unexpectedly across an open wound.

Athos crouched before them and tilted up his friend’s face, one hand at his jaw, the other feathering lightly across his temple. Aramis opened one eye, blinking muzzily. “Did you talk?” Athos asked, his own eyes like flint.

After a breath, Aramis said, “Yes.”

Athos waited.

“Lied. Told them - water?” Aramis sucked greedily at a bottle d’Artagnan held to his lips, then continued, “Told them the Royal Cortege was taking the south road. If you - if you leave now you can catch them.”

“... Can you bide?”

Aramis closed his working eye and nodded slightly.

For half a heartbeat, no more, Athos’ hands were still on Aramis’ face. Then he tipped his head forward and dropped a kiss on his friend’s filthy forehead. Rose and stepped back.

Giving a brief nod to d’Artagnan, he turned on his heel and strode out of the cave. The Gascon stared, dumbfounded. Aramis’ flesh was clammy under his hand, cold and too far gone for goose-flesh or shivering. “Can you find me some clothes?” the Musketeer asked.

“Right. Of course.”

Outside he heard Athos’ voice, clipped, sounding almost bored. _“Porthos. There’s word on where the troop is going. We need to be fast to catch them.”_

_“Yeah, but did you find any news of Aramis?”_

Even at this distance, d’Artagnan heard Athos’ sigh, almost theatrical in its exasperation. _“He’s fine. D’Artagnan is fetching some boots and they’ll catch up.”_

Even at this distance he heard Porthos’ low chuckle. _“That’s our prodigal son for you. Always turns up in the end.”_

_“I’ll need you to ride ahead to San-Pierre, and organise remounts. Go.”_

His voice slowly faded as he snapped out commands to the rest of the Musketeers who had been prowling the hills, and with a jingle of harness and the clopping of hooves, they moved away.

 _“How_ can they just -”

“One doesn’t like to upset a friend,” Aramis said softly. “Not when their duty is to move on. At least a blanket?” he added, plaintively, as outside the horses began to trot away.

“Of course.” D’Artagnan hesitated, then stripped out of his cloak and wrapped it around the other man. He dropped a kiss of his own on Aramis’ temple then eased him down onto a blanket set over some cleanish straw. “If you were going to lie anyway, you could have done it sooner. Saved some pain,” he said cattily.

“Had to m-make it look g-ood,” Aramis answered, starting to shiver. “M-muffing a ch-ance to spread mis-misinfor-mation? I’d -hh- never live it down…”

“What do I do?” d’Artagnan asked flatly.

“C-clean any open wounds with s-trong alcohol or boiled water,” Aramis mumbled. “H-heat stones and - place around torso for sh-ock. No b-b-b- - shit - b-ones feel broken.”

“What else?”

“Is there anything you can d-d-do if I’m bleeding inside? No? Then d-d-don’t worry ‘bout it, it.”

D’Artagnan hovered uncertainly on the balls of his feet, then muttered, “I won’t be long. My solemn oath,” and dashed outside. When he came back with his saddlebag, and another that Athos had left by his hobbled horse, Aramis still lay where he’d been set, limbs uncomfortably askew. Voice a little too high, he said, “I’ve a pot of my mother’s special wound balm. If you don’t fuss, you can have my shirt when I’m done.”

“My s-solemn oath,” Aramis said gravely, and twitched one arm. He stayed as quiet as he could as d’Artagnan mopped all the cuts with a rag and wine from one of Athos’ wine bottles.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve done this,” d’Artagnan said quietly, stroking an ointment that smelled strongly of rosemary along a long red welt.

“After th-the Marquesa and the riding c-rop? That was two f-friends having fun, n-othing more.” He hissed suddenly and d’Artagnan stopped.

“She marked you all over.”

“We… got a t-t-tad carried away, is all.”

“But -”

“How ‘bout you bring b-ack Porthos?” Aramis asked sourly. “You can set up a n-n-nice little harmony…”

“I’m trying to understand,” d’Artagnan answered, throat tight. He dipped his fingers back into the pot and wiped it along another stripe. Aramis’ flank twitched like a fly-bitten horse at the touch.

Silence.

D’Artagnan shrugged out of his leather jacket and bent over to drop his dirty linen shirt off his body and, carefully, painfully, help his friend into it. Shrugging back into his jacket, he checked the rocks around the fire, wrapped one in a rag, and tucked it against Aramis’ belly.

The light was starting to fade outside. D’Artagnan twisted handfuls of hay into tight ‘sticks’ so they’d burn slower, and tossed them on the little fire.

“If I’d spoken too soon,” Aramis said at last, his shivers finally dying, “they would have time to check my story. If I… broke too easy they would have known it for a lie. They were hurting me anyway. I…” He sighed, almost in surrender. “... I didn’t want to waste it.”

 _If we hadn’t found that gap-toothed shepherd,_ d’Artagnan thought, _to tell us the way._ _If we hadn’t - and you didn’t want to waste it, you gammy bastard._ He leapt to his feet, and stalked to the entrance to grab at breaths of open air, cooling with the coming night. _The life of a Musketeer..._

“Halt, bandit!” a man shouted, from just behind one of the bushes, and a stout red-haired man with the ribbon brassard of the local militia on his arm lifted a bell-mouthed bazooka, pointing it too close to d’Artagnan’s face. 

Hands up, d’Artagnan stepped back a little and smiled. “I’m no bandit,” he said easily. “I’m a Musketeer.”

“What, a skinny lout like you? Don’t make me laugh. Where’s your insignia, eh? Eh? You haven’t even got a hat!”

From inside, from the tumble of blankets, Aramis called out cheerfully, “Surrender! Surrender, if you please! If you get me some pants I promise we’ll go quietly...”

**Author's Note:**

> // Some discussion of the hazy area between consensual BDSM and self-harm which could perhaps have been saved for a different time.


End file.
